


Les Chagrins S’effacent, Heureux À en Mourir

by nikuy



Series: La Vie en Rose [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Physical Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 12:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/761535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikuy/pseuds/nikuy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years ago, "hope" didn't stand for anything but an empty word filled with false promises that is said to keep one to carry on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing the following part(s) of La Vie en Rose of course, but I was in doubt whether not you'd like it because even I personally had my fair share of mental breakdown writing this. (What have I done...?)
> 
> Anyway, I might or might not have mentioned before that I'd like to explore the depth of the plot of this prompt and after a damn long time, I'm still in love with this prompt after all and decided to post the first part of this.
> 
> Do tell me what you think of this, guys! <3

The conversation that had been going on around him became a mere buzz and nothing else to his ears; it was as if he couldn’t understand the language others were using. He blankly stared _through_ them. The man in expansive gray-striped suit clinging to his friend’s shallow waist was a slightly good-looking one, said the others, but he was no different from the middle-aged man indulging his other friend on the other couch wantonly, doing whatever his hand was doing underneath those layers of skirt while his friend letting out small noises these perverted creatures deemed to be caused by pleasure. He shifted on the lap of the man he was sitting on as he felt fingers trailing down the back of his neck, sliding lower to the small of his back. It was supposed to be disgusting, but he had forgotten how to wince or squint at the impossibly filthy feeling as those fingers touched him inappropriately through the flimsy material of his dress. The touch felt more like a nudge to the back of his throat, it should have triggered his gag reflex, normally it would lead to the churning of his stomach, but he was far from normal. Way too far.

 

“I have to say that this is an honor for me, Filippo.” The man he was sitting on—was it Francesco? He was one of Inzaghi’s good acquaintances (or so the man claimed). He lightly tugged on his hair—he could not _not_ wince at that—and breathed in. He chuckled, “Mesut, isn’t it? I’ve had my eyes on you ever since your debut.” He reached out to caress the expanse of skin on his arm that wasn’t covered with his white lacey glove, but then the man with blonde curls decided that Mesut was way overdressed as he rolled down the glove, touching more skin in a way that made Mesut’s skin crawl, but he gave in under his touch. He had been taught to. “ _Mi bello_.” Francesco took his hand and kissed it gently.

 

“I’m glad that you take my offer, Francesco.” Filippo spoke from across the table, a big smile split through his face, as he weighed the wine glass he was holding. The old geezer on the other sofa was already so into it while the man in gray suit already looked comfortable with the one in the maroon dress. “You should be happy, Mesut. Francesco here has a soft spot for _girls_ your age; it’s a good thing that you’re to his liking.”

 

Mesut smiled and glanced shyly at the blonde man behind him, “Thank you, _signor_ Totti. I can’t be happier.” The words that slid out of his mouth were tasteless and silent, but the tone he was using succeeded to bring the older man to a more indecent mood as he started to run his hand on the fringe of the dress he was wearing.

 

“You, dear gentlemen, would be needing privacy, I believe?” Filippo rose from his seat, “I have prepared the most comfortable rooms for you to spend the night here.”

 

“That would be very convenient.” Francesco touched the boy’s hips and he took the cue to stand up, not less gracefully than he already did and let the older man to feast on his backside for a second longer before he moved aside to make a space for the blonde man.

 

“Gentlemen, let me show you to your rooms.”

 

*

 

The house was running busy during this time, just like the other nights. Moans and cries were seeping through the thin walls that separated the rooms on the second floor, while the bar on the ground floor was on fire. People were chattering, drinking, singing, and some disappearing into dark corners doing the only deeds that they know. It was just another part of the daily routine in this house—Inzaghi would slap anyone who would use the word ‘brothel’ to refer to this place. Inzaghi called this place a home for the lost ‘angels’, he made it a home for boys like Mesut, only the word ‘boy’ was the second most forbidden word to be used under this roof.

 

These boys were all addressed as ‘girls’, they were all taught to be ones; they were given frilly dresses, makeup to paint themselves pretty, and were obliged to appear so when they were not in their compartments. Mesut had had his own fair share of scrubbing the floor endlessly, polishing the senior girls’ shoes, washing the dresses until one day Inzaghi assessed his physical feature and decided that it was about time that he should make his debut. He made it on the second year of his stay, he could not even describe the horror he experienced the first time he was handed down to the old man who bid for him with ‘an outstanding price’ (Inzaghi really liked to boast about his ‘record’ on selling his virginity to the highest bidder it was bitterly comical). He was told that if his debut price was that high, he would be able to avoid weird, low-class customers because his price would only rise and rise from that time on if he would do it right. He did not.

 

The first time left him a deep, gaping wound, reeking of rotting garbage in the rainy season. It broke him, his friends called it; he was broken at the first attempt. It was almost impossible for him to go on, he was lost, the pain was unlike anything else, but one day he woke up with a companion sitting by his bed in his compartment. It was Kaka, one of the house’s most respected ‘girls’. It was right after Inzaghi punished him for beating a customer—a cheap one, but still a customer. It was unheard of in the house for a young debutante to receive such horrid punishment, and Kaka couldn’t help but to finally let his compassion show. He was the one who begged Inzaghi to spare him with a promise to make him better.

 

Mesut didn’t know whether it was better than before or not, he had even lost his senses for right and wrong, but Kaka helped him to cope. He helped him to see the good in what they are stuck in, none of them chose to be… _this_ , but Kaka showed him how to make the best of it. The Brazilian beauty had been through tough hardships before and unlike Mesut, he had no ‘Kaka’ to keep him sane. He was a strong believer, no matter what he had been through and only to have him around was enough for Mesut to feel that he wasn’t fighting for a lost cause. Only, was it a cause at all? Because unlike Kaka, Mesut chose to made himself an object, a _thing_ , he left what people would describe as moral, faith, existence, feelings, and everything that makes him human behind once he put on his dress and painted his face. He was a mere toy, a tool to please others. There was no way he could dislike whatever that was to be done to him, he managed his life like that. He started getting customers of higher class and positions. He made more money than he could ever think what to spend on.

 

The worst thing was it turned that the higher the class you are in, the more ‘creative’ you tend to be in the most unpleasant sense. He was familiar with the likes of Francesco, though the man gave him more eerie vibes. The second he met him, he knew he wouldn’t like him so he switched himself ‘off’ and presented himself as the ‘girl’ that Filippo expected him to be.

 

“This is your room, Francesco.” Inzaghi opened a door; Mesut had never been into that chamber before, the owner only allowed important guests in this kind of rooms, but then again he didn’t care. The better he cooperates, the quicker this would end. He was about to court Francesco into the room, but then Inzaghi grabbed his forearm. “Can I have him for a second, Francesco?”

 

The blonde man turned and smiled thinly, “Not too long, please, Filippo.”

 

“Of course.” The owner was all smiles and sweetness, which Mesut knew very well was a mere mask, and as if it was his cue, the smile disappeared along with Francesco into the room and he turned to the boy and cupped his face harshly. “You listen to me, _angel_.”

 

The boy held his teeth from tugging on his own lip and nodded before he opened his eyes to look at the owner, fear was evident in his eyes. If there was anyone who could make his legs wobble in the most horrible way, it was Inzaghi. “Y…yes, _signore_.”

 

“That man right there is one of my most important sponsors right now, so don’t you dare to fuck it up.” Inzaghi hissed lowly as he grazed his fingers along the younger one’s trembling neck, smirking, “You do not say ‘no’ to him. You do not talk back. You do not cry, or scream, or laugh, or make any sound if it’s not what he wants. You fulfill whatever he wants and see your attempts to be handsomely paid. You fuck this up, you’re _fucked_. Are we clear?”

 

“Yes, _signore_.”

 

“Good.” He released the boy and watched him getting his composure back with a smirk. It was worth the time listening to Kaka after all; this ‘girl’ did his job very well. “Off you go.” He dismissed Mesut with a cold smile.

 

*

 

“Mesut? Mesut!”

 

The boy blinked awake and realized that he was still in the same bedroom from last night. He tried to move his body, but everything hurt. He tried to at least turn his head to see who was calling out his name that frantic and saw Kaka, dressed in a white silk robe with his hair extension neatly attached to his head; auburn locks framed his beautiful face. It felt almost like looking straight to the sunrise the first thing in the morning and Mesut groaned as he felt how hard it was to simply roll over.

 

“…K-Kaka…what…?”

 

“Mes, you okay?” Kaka sounded so worried while the boy still couldn’t understand why.

 

“What…? Why are you…why does it hurts…?” Mesut suddenly winced as he tried to get up and Kaka placed a hand on his shoulder. Fear and shock crept into him just as slowly as the realization for the pain came. He was in a sticky mess, his throat was badly sore, he could feel himself leaking and he could not help it. He could smell a faint _tangy_ smell somewhere. “…Kaka…K-Kaka…it doesn’t look that bad…does it…?”

 

“N-no…dear, let me help you…”

 

Mesut couldn’t see it, but he had heard that tone before. Kaka lied to him too before, once.

 

*

 

Mesut was lying on his bed in silence. Kaka just left with the doctor and he heard his friends buzzing like bees on the outside of his and Marko’s compartment. Marko sobbed lightly when he snuck his roommate his breakfast and left after he managed to feed Mesut half of it. The boy stretched his lips into a smile ironically at the thought that everyone was worried sick over him. Rule number one of this place was no customer is allowed to break the goods; but that didn’t seem to apply to Francesco because Inzaghi simply ordered Kaka to call a doctor and dismissed him to get some rest.

 

The old Mesut would’ve wished that he could forget about all of it, but this Mesut replayed the memory from last night in his head with a blank expression. That Italian wealthy man was…it was plain horror. He remembered Francesco caressing his extension with an eerie smile on his face and offered him a glass of wine, which he drugged with something that even the doctor said could be lethal. He remembered the man taunting him, calling him with nicknames that only would be appropriate for little girls while he got dizzy and heated in a way he knew was impossible because it was painful. He had no idea what that crazy fuck drugged him with, but even a whisper sounded way too loud to his ears, the simplest touches burnt his skin and he came with way too little stimulation it wasn’t normal. What happened next wasn’t normal either; the man came up with ‘creative’ uses of the stuffs around them—the cupboard full of toys didn’t seem to please him enough, so he started with the wine bottle, then the toys came later, with not enough preparation. It was painful, but his tongue betrayed him all night by begging for more, crying for more. The man stuffed him with some toys he found and pounded into him, tugging on his hair while biting his neck, his shoulder, with his sickening groans and moans and petnames. He remembered throwing up at one point, but the sick fuck did not stop and pounded harder into him, gripping on him that he left bruises here and there.

 

When he woke up, Kaka was already there. He helped him to bathe and dressed him with a lot more comfortable clothes. He hadn’t been reacting too much even though he recognized the look on his friend’s face, but he couldn’t care. Not now. He needed to embrace these feelings first, he needed to get used to it—to learn to live with it, just like how he coped up with this life. Once he could, he would be able to live again and to deal with it no matter how many times he should. He felt the swell on his thighs, his hips, chest, neck…they didn’t matter. They’d be gone in a matter of days and he’d know better now to expect such treatment the next time he saw a customer, so he could brace himself and not to let himself breaking over and over again.

 

“Mesut?” The boy opened his eyes (when did he close them?) and saw Kaka’s head poking from behind the door. The older man then smiled and walked into the room with a plastic bag. “How are you feeling?”

 

“Okay.” Mesut muttered.

 

Kaka sighed and sauntered towards the bed and sat down next to him, “No, Mesut. It’s _not_ okay.” He gently brushed a bang off the brunette’s forehead, “Being treated like that…not okay…”

 

“I can deal with it.” He flatly responded.

 

He sounded vacant and Kaka knew he was about to lose it again; the older man couldn’t have that. It was already hard enough to stop Mesut from crying back then and he thought that it was the worst part, but no, it wasn’t. Mesut had his ways of closing himself up and he learnt from one shock to another. Lately Kaka realized that the boy was no longer a boy; he was a man with his own mind, shaped by the life they were living in. He had seen boys losing it, but in the end, it was either giving everything up or embracing the job and trying to make the best of it. Mesut did neither; the boys had their own way of embracing their life under this roof, but he had seen some like Mesut who claimed to embrace it but they did not. They were slowly leaving their body to be an empty slot, which was what he saw happening to Mesut right now.

 

“Dear, please. You can talk. You can cry.”

 

“I don’t want to.”

 

*


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I'm not sorry for more drama and tacky lines. Ack. *hides*
> 
> (Also, my tifosi is showing in this fic) (srsly Hide is too cute)
> 
> Comments?

Mesut wouldn’t admit it, but he was very fond of the look on Kaka’s face when his patron was around. His patron was a wealthy Portuguese entrepreneur, Cristiano Ronaldo. It was also an interesting thing to see because when Ronaldo comes, it always means free drinks for everyone and he’d rather chill in the bar with the lot of them and Kaka by his side rather than confiding in the comfort of the VIP rooms he was free to access anytime. While he was at it, he would talk to other girls as well, but never to flirt. He started talking with Mesut after Kaka introduced them to each other and he was a funny, insightful man. Unlike other customers, he did not leer at other girls for he had his eyes only and always on Kaka.

 

Tonight he came again and everyone cheered in the bar. Mesut had started working again now that his wounds and scars were healed, and when Ronaldo arrived, he felt a familiar rush of something—relief, perhaps—as he knew he could feast his eyes on Kaka’s smiles and bright eyes around his patron’s presence. It was almost like a fairy tale; Ronaldo actually told them that he wasn’t used to such establishment, but he admitted that he couldn’t take his eyes off Kaka the first time he saw him. It sounded like those stories his mother used to tell him when he was little; it was sweet and nearly unrealistic. He was happy for Kaka and he knew that one day Ronaldo would take him out of this shithole. He wasn’t too happy though when his eyes met Ronaldo’s and the man grinned at him.

 

“Hey, Mesut! Where have you been?”

 

The boy smiled thinly at him, knowing that he couldn’t run this time now that Kaka spotted him and beckoned him to come over to their table. “Hello, sir-“

 

“When will you drop the formalities, seriously?” The Portuguese rolled his eyes as he took a sip of the cheap beer he got from the bar. It was like seeing a prince in fairy tales drinking a bottle full of shit, but Ronaldo claimed that he liked it.

 

“Okay, C-Cristiano.” Mesut sighed as he sat down on one chair, the name rolled on his tongue uneasily. This wasn’t how he used to act towards customers, but this one demanded the weirdest requests.

 

“Chill, Mes. Got your drink? What do you want?”

 

“Cris, he can’t-“

 

“Scotch. Straight.” Mesut swiftly told him and Cristiano chuckled at that before he ordered it for Mesut.

 

“Mes, you’re not fully healed yet!” Kaka glared at him—or almost. Tonight he was wearing that dress Ronaldo bought for him, a backless dark emerald body-fitting dress that showed the shape of Kaka’s lean body perfectly. He also had his pretty wavy brunette extensions framing his face beautifully and Ronaldo’s coat covering his legs. He only managed to look threatening enough for a puppy and it didn’t work on Mesut, obviously. The younger boy laughed and thanked the waiter who brought him his shot.

 

“This eases up the pain, Kaka honey.” Mesut winked playfully and downed his shot not all too ladylike despite of his usual brunette extensions, the new little lacey headdress, the broken-white colored classic dress with pastel blue accents, and white Mary Jane shoes.

 

“You look like you come out from Wonderland or something, Alice.” Ronaldo, as blunt as ever, commented. “It looks good on you though.”

 

“Cristiano!” Kaka pinched his patron’s waist, making him wince.

 

Mesut waved it off, “Gifts from a sick one too. He likes playing Mad Hatter.” Mesut smiled as he joked about it lightly. Way too lightly.

 

Ronaldo seemed to realize that he just stepped on a sensitive matter that turned his boy’s mood sour and now that he heard it, he couldn’t help to feel sorry. Kaka took over easily as he noticed his patron’s face fell though, and turned his pretty eyes to the younger boy. “Have you got any customer this evening?”

 

“Nah.” Mesut threaded his extensions with his fingers—he had the nails painted today, “Just a few small favors in the back room. Nothing much. If I could, I don’t feel like it today.”

 

“That explains your dirty knees, naughty little Alice!” suddenly someone plopped down on Mesut’s lap and giggled; it was Mario, sporting his usual playful alter-ego with bunny ears and soft pink Victorian dress and platinum blonde hair extensions. Talking about sick people here, Mario liked his patron enough even though his patron loved to dress him up with funny stuffs. It was a Japanese schoolgirl uniform yesterday with pigtailed jet black wig and stockings. He patted Mesut’s cheek lightly, “You’re very pretty though. I’d like to dress you with that pretty pink _cheongsam_ my man got me last week. The white lotus flower hairpin would look amazing on you.”

 

Mesut rolled his eyes while Ronaldo and Kaka exploded with laughter, “I guess you need to slow down on your drinks, Mario!” the Portuguese giggled.

 

“I’ve had my share of fetish dresses, thanks, Mario.” The brunette shoved him off his lap and Mario stumbled off.

 

“You’re just jealous because Hideto bought me nice things.” The pretty blonde boy giggled and kissed Mesut’s cheek, leaving a bright pink kiss mark. “I heard things though. Good things.”

 

“What things?” Kaka suddenly was interested. Mario was fun and easy to socialize with almost everyone, even sometimes Inzaghi would leak out something he did not mean to around the bubbly teenager.

 

“The freaky pimp had a talk yesterday.” He moved onto an empty seat, leaning forward as he turned his voice lower, “On phone. With someone. I don’t know who, but I’ve always suspected that he likes to dress up as well, secretly, and is a mistress of some rich uncle somewhere-“

 

“The point, Mario!” Mesut nudged him none-too-lightly.

 

“Oh. Yeah. The point.” The blonde giggled and turned to Mesut, pulling him closer. “It’s about our favorite stone-hearted princess here.”

 

“What is it?” Kaka was growing impatient and Ronaldo took another sip on his drink.

 

“Baby, you’re acting like a girl way too much.”

 

“Blame the owner.” He threw his patron a deadly glare and the Portuguese shrank on his seat.

 

“Anyway,” Mario took over everyone’s attention once again and smiled, “He might announce this girl’s patronage soon. Maybe next week.”

 

Mesut blinked while Kaka tensed at the unpleasant shiver that just ran down his spine. “What?”

 

“Yeah. I think you just impressed a bunch of people.” Mario turned to the subject of his talk, “Someone already bid for you and we’re talking about hundreds of grands here.”

 

Ronaldo could actually feel Kaka tensing up and glanced at him, “You okay, love?” he asked worriedly as he realized how pale his boy looked.

 

The brunette noticed the change in Kaka and smiled at him while Mario was puzzled, “D-did I say something wrong?”

 

“No, dear.” Mesut patted his shoulder, “Thanks. It’s great to hear that.”

 

Mario took his cue to excuse himself and leave the table with worried eyes on Kaka. Mesut ordered another shot of scotch but Ronaldo offered him a bottle as he thought Kaka might need some too. He downed his share a little slower than the older ‘girl’ and felt like disappearing once Kaka’s eyes turned to him again.

 

“You have to refuse that one.” Kaka muttered.

 

“It’s not my place to say no.” the younger boy shrugged, “Other girls have been calling me a late bloomer for not having a patron earlier anyway. I told you I’ll get used to it.” He bitterly remarked. Both of them knew well who the first bidder was, who else would give such a big offer to make sure his patronage safe? It was one of Inzaghi’s ways to secure good money; he’d have the patronage vacancy announced anytime now that he had a good offer in hand and by then, it’d be either too late for anyone else to bid or it was too expensive. It happened a few times before and only happened to the ones Inzaghi was so keen to break; he had no idea that the owner hated Mesut _that_ much it was getting more and more horrid.

 

“Isn’t it a good thing?” Ronaldo carefully asked, “I mean, doesn’t that mean that Mesut get to have someone to provide him and away from Inzaghi? Like, me and you?” he touched Kaka’s hand gently, but the man didn’t say anything.

 

“Let’s just say that not everyone is as kind as you,” Mesut answered him for Kaka, “and your boy here thought that I wouldn’t be able to cope with this one.”

 

“I _don’t_ want you cope up with that one.” Kaka coldly retorted, “I don’t want you to get used to that kind of… _thing_.”

 

“The last time I checked, you’re not my dad.” Mesut finally spat his venom. He hated it when anyone, especially Kaka, goes all caring and shit like that. “Or mom, in this matter.” He leered at the older man’s dress with a cynical smirk, “Now excuse me, I’ll retreat to my room seeing that no one is hardcore enough for me tonight. Thanks for the drink, Ronaldo.” He downed his last shot and turned his back at the shock all over Kaka’s face. He wouldn’t regret it like the other things he had done, he didn’t even look back as he swayed his hips away from the table.

 

He knew by now that Ronaldo would escort his beloved princess to their usual room—he didn’t judge, he _saw_ how desperately in love that man was with Kaka—and demand the older man to share his concerns. Kaka would start with how he had been trying not to care, not to pay any mind to it, but he just couldn’t. Poor guy. Kaka was a good man at heart and he couldn’t just stay put when he sees someone in trouble. Mesut thought that it was all sad and funny at the same time; maybe Kaka didn’t realize it, but _everyone_ is in trouble under this roof, so to be able to live, _everyone_ should just embrace whatever they were getting. One time Kaka went all furious on a customer for forcing a girl—Marko—into an act he deemed inappropriate right in the open. It was a blessing that Inzaghi loved him (or the money coming from his patron) enough to let it go, but Mesut thought that was unnecessary. The customer had registered for Marko and he was getting what he paid for, wasn’t that how it works in this kind of environment?

 

When he returned to his compartment, the first thing he did was to sit down on his bed and unclipped the extensions—these old stuffs started killing him lately—and stared at Marko’s side of the cramped room for the longest time. He had heard Marko’s side of sad story; thrown into an orphanage at eight along with his little sister, started working hard at ten, started worrying at twelve. He had been working here for two years and no one bade for him, another late-bloomer, but it was because he was rather naïve and clumsy that Inzaghi wouldn’t present him to anyone that would be able to pay for such establishment.

 

However, he did notice that Marko had a cause. He could see it all over the wall on his side of the room, there were pictures on them; pictures of people who lived free out there he hadn’t seen for a long time, most of them were of his little sister. The blonde boy once showed him a picture of his sister excitedly and rattled about her for hours nonstop; he even mentioned that he’d work so hard to give her a better living than his. Every month he would send every penny he got to his sister, he was determined to work hard so he could get out of this place by paying Inzaghi what he spent on him years ago. Lately Mesut noticed that there was one particular photo that Marko kept in his dresser and looked at every night before he went to sleep. He caught a glimpse of it before and recognized the person in the photo right away; it was one of the customers. The one that always dresses sloppily, a brainy fellow he seemed to be, but not rich enough to buy patronage. He spilled his feelings out after the incident with that customer who hurt him, in front of Mesut and Kaka. Kaka, as a fairy godmother that he was, supported the idea and started adding it to the list of the things he should pray for in the morning and before bed. Mesut, on the other hand, chose not to say anything that’d only hurt his roommate.

 

It was an unrealistic idea. A poor guy who couldn’t even feed himself and came to their place to find pleasure was only a useless pervert just like other customers. He saw no difference in it even when Marko told them that the man was saving up for his patronage; Mesut still thought that the man would leave his friend heartbroken. It happened before. Many times, even to ones under patronage. He did let his tongue slip once when Kaka was talking about it while they were washing their dresses in the laundry room only to get himself the man’s trademark motherly sigh and a lecture. Kaka made a point though; Marko still had a sister who needed him, he needed all the hope he could get. No one could blame him.

 

Hope. He had given up on hopes for some time now; he had nowhere to go out there. The last thing he heard from his parents was that they left for Turkey with his youngest sibling, he had two other but he had no idea where or even who they were; he really had no place to go back to if he was to be freed from this place. At least this brothel shelters and feeds him, which was enough. He had never even touched his earnings ever since he started working. The last time he checked, it was enough to buy him high-end designer dresses and designer shoes, yet he sees no purpose in doing so. He wasn’t looking forward to free himself, to make himself look pretty, or even to attract more customers. He didn’t know what he was doing here else than to devote himself to others’ wishes and to please others to the demanded extent. He wasn’t lost; it only means that he embraced his purpose in living.

 

Love. Love? Would there be a space for love in him while he didn’t have any hope or, even, desire at all?

 

Love, though, sounds distantly familiar. For him it sounds like an echoed voice in a dark, long tunnel. It was shapeless and faint, as if the tunnel was miles long. When he was willing to trace back deeper into the tunnel, he would, however, started hearing the echoes clearer and a sense of familiarity would hit him sparsely. He would start to be able to understand what the voices were saying and at a new depth, he realized that those voices were calling out his name. The voices were so familiar that he tracked it down this time, trying to find back what his life had thrown him out of and he remembered smiles.

 

Laughter.

 

Football.

 

Stolen candies.

 

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t permanently erase those two names from his head; Sese and Sam. Those names were like magic words that switched all the neon lights in the tunnel at once, showing him the path he had walked on before back to the start where he could see two boys by the end of it. Two boys—they looked younger than him; one was wearing an old football jersey of a Spanish club and shredded jeans, his eyes were smiling beautifully like his lips, and he had unruly blonde hair that hanged around his neck. His face was covered in freckles and his voice was loud, clear, and heartwarming—this one is Sese and he loved to sing. The other one was a wee bit darker with neat jet black hair and darker eyes that didn’t smile like his lips, but those eyes gave him security. He stood only an inch taller than the blonde boy, wearing a nice tee and branded jeans. His voice was soft but loud enough for Mesut to hear; it was the most settling voice he had ever heard. It must be Sam.

 

Sese and Sam; fire and water, sun and moon.

 

 _His_.

 

At least those were what they used to be for Mesut when he was much younger. They had always been there ever since he could remember, even in the living room when his family first moved in; little toddlers were lost on their adventure, as his mother once addressed them. They were fascinated at the one-year-old Mesut who was sitting on the carpet with his rattling toys while his older siblings were helping his mother in the kitchen. The next thing that his mother knew was that her baby was no longer playing alone when she got back to him.

 

His own memory started later than that though. Sese and Sam always came over to take him for football games and/or revealing new places when he was old enough not to cry if he fell. Sese was the one who would suggest new places to be claimed as their latest headquarter of the month while Sam always had interesting stories to tell from the books that he read. They protected him like their own brother, he stole his first candy from a convenient store with them—he actually had no memories about his childhood without them in the frame.

 

Most were unclear, but he _knew_ they were there. At least he remembered small kisses. Soft, sloppy kisses. It was of earlier memories. He remembered Sese holding his hands as he said something nice and pleasant, caressing his hair with blush upon his cheeks as he gave him a small, innocent peck on his lips. At different time, Sami hugged him as he cried—why did he cry?—and whispered things into his ear; sweet, sweet nothings, before he tilted Mesut’s chin to give him a kiss on his lips. It made his heart race and his cheeks redden, even now. They used to love one another, they shared kisses and tried to manage that none of them felt left out. It was a single memory that he could not forget—bury, yes, but he could always find it beneath the layers of the new ones he made.

 

He gasped as he heard knocks on his door and realized that tears were streaming down his face. This couldn’t be good, he had brought himself too far into the past and this was what he got. Quickly he grabbed some tissue from his nightstand and wiped his face hurriedly. He unlocked the door and swiftly twirled around as Marko barged in.

 

“Thank God you’re awake, I lost my keys again.” The blonde boy laughed as he closed the door behind him. Mesut glanced at him and noticed that his makeup was ruined, his lipstick was smeared all over his chin, his extensions hanged loose, and his dress—well, the dress was intact, so he guessed someone was impatient.

 

“You seem to be in a good mood.” He commented as his roommate struggled to unzip his dress and simply poked him to come closer so he could unzip it for him.

 

“Well, I am.” Marko sounded giddy.

 

Mesut doesn’t usually humor anyone, even his own roommate, over trivial things he thought unimportant, but he smiled at the tone the blonde boy used, “A visit from your loverboy?” he gently unzipped the dress and tugged it down to his roommate’s slim ankles so he could step out of it.

 

“Uh…” Marko stammered and blushed furiously as he turned around in the flimsy white panties he was wearing. “H-how did you know?”

 

“I recognize drying come as good as you know I won’t let you live off it.” He grinned teasingly and laughed as his roommate freaked out and covered certain areas on his lower half.

 

“W-we cleaned up-“

 

“I’m joking, Marko!” Mesut barked with laughter, “But it’s true, no? That he visited?”

 

Marko threw him an annoyed look as he grabbed some boxers and old tee from his dresser, “Yeah, he did.” He still blushed as he took his panties off and dressed up clumsily into a more comfortable attire. It reminded Mesut that he needed to do the same and he got up from his bed to take a tee and shorts.

 

“Did you guys have fun?” he asked as he unzipped his own dress and slid out of it. Marko didn’t immediately answer, but then he did when Mesut threw him a questioning glance.

 

“O-oh. Yeah, we did. Not too much, but enough…” he shyly said.

 

The taller one sat back down on his bed once he got into his shorts and turned his eyes back to his roommate, “It’s not the sex that makes you bubbly like that.” He smiled at the surprise on Marko’s face.

 

“Yeah…” he mumbled his response, “He…he actually is firm about getting me under his patronage. He…he might be able to purchase it next month. I know the price hasn’t been announced, but he said he’ll try to make prepositions with Inzaghi.” he giggled. “Silly Branna.”

 

The taller boy stared at him for a moment. It was the first time that he felt so vile for thinking that Marko was being unrealistic, that he even thought that the boy was a little soft in the head just because he had hopes and actually acquired love during his stay in this place. “Hey, um, Marko?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I…” Mesut tried to find the appropriate words to say, something that had been long gone from his dictionary over such rare usage and his own state of mind. “I apologize that…that I’ve been so ignorant about that. I mean…” he clicked his tongue and scratched the back of his head, Marko’s bright green eyes were following him, “…what I’m trying to say is, I…I’ve never responded to your thoughts. To your ideas, your stories—I even scolded you so often for being ‘annoying’ to my sense, I guess…I’m the one who’s being a prick.” He eyed his friend who was nursing a puzzled expression, “That is a really great thing to hear. I’m happy for you.” He smiled wider. The lack of response from his roommate made him feel a little embarrassed, maybe he shouldn’t even said that, but he felt like he had to. He intended to at the first place.

 

“Oh.” Marko blinked momentarily before he looked down to his lap, “Oh. Geez. I wasn’t expecting that, no worries, Mes.” He chuckled, “It’s actually weird enough that you suddenly asked about my love life, but it feels really nice though it kinda’ weirds me out.” He beamed at his roommate and Mesut chuckled.

 

“I didn’t even know why I asked.” He reached for the makeup remover and some cotton on his nightstand.

 

“You should do that more often, you know? It actually feels nice talking with you.” Marko did the same and squirted some of his makeup remover on some cotton, “You’re nice when you’re not…well, _bitey_.”

 

“Am I…?”

 

“It’s quite obvious how you hate everything, Mes.” Marko said in an apologizing tone, but he didn’t stop as he dabbed the cotton on his face, “But talking with you like this, like… _right now_ , feels good. Even your eyes are so pleasant to look at.” He grinned at the faint blush on his friend’s cheeks—he couldn’t determine whether it was his eyes playing games with him or it was the blush-on, but it didn’t matter because the adorable look on Mesut’s face was quite amusing. “Don’t take me wrong though; you have beautiful eyes, just…they usually look hard and angry at everything, but they’re so gentle just now. They look prettier.”

 

He found his loss of words at that and didn’t say anything more. A smile was enough to make his roommate beam and apparently, it meant more than words.

 

*

 

It was him who came to Kaka the first thing in the morning. He snuck out of his room and up to the VIP level—Inzaghi would definitely kill him if he found out, but the cook said he went out earlier, so he took his chances (Ronaldo wouldn’t mind _that_ much, anyway). He knocked on their room—it was on the same level with the room Inzaghi provided for Francesco—and waited patiently. After a minute or two, the door was opened and Kaka showed up in his silk robe, his face was clean from makeup and he wore his own hair this time. He looked surprised to find Mesut, but before he could say anything, the younger boy beat him to it.

 

“I’m sorry I was such an ass last night and I’m sorry that I’m an ass _all_ the time. I should’ve known that you did what you feel right and you care about everyone around you. Okay, you don’t even have to forgive me or anything, I just need to say that. I’m off now.” Before Mesut could even turn to leave, Kaka grabbed his arm and kept him still.

 

“Silly boy, what on earth…come on in!” he tugged on the boy’s arm but Mesut tugged it back in horror.

 

“No way! I would break more rules than I already did-“

 

“It’s going to be okay! Cris wouldn’t mind!” the slightly taller man tugged him in and closed the door behind him. He turned to the younger man who was flushing hard and crossed his arms in front of him, “Sneaking up here not dolled up is already bad enough, but at least if you’re found here with me, I can make something up.” Mesut nodded while looking at his own feet in shame, but then Kaka softened a bit. He cupped the boy’s face gently and tried to look into his eyes, “What’s with the sudden apology?”

 

“Nothing.” Mesut looked back at his eyes coyly, “I was thinking last night. About things. It’s not that I agree with you or anything, but I shouldn’t have been such an ass like that. You’re my friend.”

 

Kaka almost winced at that, but he kept his composure cool, “It doesn’t really matter, Mesut. It never really matters.” He patted the boy’s cheek gently, “I’ve been nosey. I shouldn’t have done that. Cris said that I care too much.” He rolled his eyes with a smile, “I just don’t know how to care less.”

 

“I know.” Mesut smiled, “You’ve always been an angel, Kaka. I would’ve been worse without you around that I might drive Marko out of our room.” He chuckled.

 

“That’s good.” There was a muffled voice calling out for Kaka from the other room and he patted the boy’s shoulder, “You better go back to your room before Cris walk out here naked, okay? And if you ran into anyone, just told them I had some pressing matters that I need you to do for me. And, oh, I’d like to talk to you later, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

*

 

As the sky grew dark, the house came to life. The servants and new recruits were cleaning the third and the second floor while the waiters and the bartenders were preparing the bar on the ground floor. Underneath the fuss, the girls were preparing themselves in their compartments. Some were running in and out from one to another room, borrowing stuffs and were being quite loud. Mesut almost ruined his cat-eyeliner when he heard someone screamed over torn stockings and hissed at his bedroom door with a glare. It was obviously Mario; he remembered spending two years with Mario in this place, but he didn’t remember himself being such a girl on simple things like that. Marko, who just clipped his short, curly blonde wig, chuckled.

 

“He’s been on fire since morning.” He said as he ran his fingers through the blonde curls in front of his mirror, “Today is his patron’s birthday or something and he cried because he cancelled his order for some…’slutty kitten’ costume on the internet.”

 

“Uh...” Mesut shivered at the disturbing mental image and reached out for his lipstick palette, weighing between the nude color and the pastel orange one, “Kaka knows when his patron’s birthday is. He never goes crazy like that.”

 

“It’s different. Kaka _loves_ his patron.” Marko grinned, “While Mario…well, have you ever heard him going on and on about his? Wait, never mind.” He missed the slightly annoyed look on Mesut’s face and carried on, “He likes his patron. A lot. It turns out that they have less sex than anyone has ever thought. They’re more like…friends. With benefits. His patron is an artist or something, he likes Mario and he loves dressing him up and taking pictures of him.” The blonde boy giggled as he grabbed a yellow satin mini-dress that blinded his roommate’s eyes, “Mario loves it when people worship him, but he said sometimes he doesn’t feel like he’s working because his patron just won’t initiate any physical contact and would be happy enough only to see him dressing up in what he bought him. It’s funny, but that kind of thing does exist.”

 

“Oh,” Mesut nodded as he took his extensions out of the box gently, “That’s new for me.”

 

“I’m sorry, but you should try to look at the things around you.” Marko mumbled as he slid into his dress and patted it down gently, “There really are amusing, unthinkable things around us. It’s entertaining.”

 

“I _do_ look around.” He bit back, but his roommate laughed and he put on a pair of white stilettos.

 

“Look closer!” he grabbed his spare keys and walked out of the room before his roommate could retort.

 

 _Closer, huh?_ Mesut dabbed his brush over the nude lipstick and applied it gently on his lips. Wherever he laid his eyes, he only sees people who are not bright enough to recognize that this was a torment that they were living in; a bunch of hopeless people who romanticize and dramatize everything so they would be able to deny the reality. Mesut was not that kind of person, though he would learn to respect what his friends were into. He felt that maybe his younger self would never thought that he would ever turn into this bitter person. He even envied his younger self; he had such a joyful life and only thought of happy things despite of the reality that surrounded him.

 

Putting down his lip palette and brush, he wondered. It was no less bitter than this; a little, maybe, but he only remembers that he used to live a happy life. Happiness took forms of the simplest things, the smallest gestures: candies, football, friendly hugs, and sloppy kisses. His happiness took the forms of Sese and Sam, their smiles, the voices, their touches. They were the first thing that he looked forward to wake up to in the morning and the one who would send him back to his dreamland every night. His world used to revolve around them—at least he had them, back then, to make him forget.

 

A question crossed his thought in a brief moment; why did they stay if it was him alone who lived a shitty life?

 

“Mesut?” there was a knock on the door and the boy looked up from his mirror.

 

“It’s not locked.”

 

The door was pushed open and Kaka took a step in, dressed simply in his pajamas and that cute smile on his face. “You’re not ready yet?”

 

“Just a little bit more.” He smiled at the older man who was a few steps away from his bed, “Come here.”

 

Kaka did and he sat down on his friend’s bed. He watched Mesut fixing his hair and clipped a few strands of extensions underneath his own hair; a notion that he was lazy tonight, but wouldn’t mind doing a little favor. “Have you heard anything from Inzaghi?”

 

“Not yet.” He replied as he brushed his bangs—they really were getting longer, but he couldn’t cut them off until he could get new wigs or extensions—to fall gracefully around his eyes and fluffed them up a bit. “Maybe Mario was just bluffing.”

 

“I’d rather not say so.”

 

Mesut spared him a glance before he returned to his work on his hair, putting on a simple black headband to keep his hair on its place, “Then you’ve heard something?”

 

“Not yet.” The Brazilian smiled uneasily; “You know that I can’t shut it even though you turned me down last night, no?” the younger boy blushed, “So here’s the thing. I got a little tipsy and I might have spilled…things…to Cris and he freaked out. He couldn’t take the fact that we’re not made of flowers and brought up by Easter bunnies.” He chuckled at Mesut’s smile; that was understandable. “The thing is…he demanded Inzaghi’s presence last night but I told him that it’d mean he should save _everyone_ if he was to play hero right there.”

 

“Not bad, fairy godmother.”

 

The older man almost rolled his eyes but he made a small bashful smile, “It’s not that I’m unaware that we’re all in trouble just by being here. It’s just…everyone is coping well, Mesut, body and soul.”

 

“Kaka…”

 

“I can’t help it. I notice that while you’re a strong boy yourself, you’re breaking inside and that’s far worse—it’s not that I know what’s going on in your head or anything, but I can’t-“

 

“Kaka.”

 

“-imagine that sort of…of… _monster_ , taking a hold on you while you’re not—you’re a child, Mesut. I’m sorry, but I have to say this, you shouldn’t even have experienced _that_ …that…” he couldn’t bring himself to continue and it was Mesut’s turn to sigh.

 

Gently, the younger boy cupped the older man’s cheek and looked into his eyes, “It’s okay.” He whispered, “I mean, I know _that_ is not okay, but it’s fine. You’re sweating too much over this. I appreciate it, really, but there’s no way out of this, okay?” he tried to smile, to ease the look on his friend’s face, but he strangely couldn’t. “I don’t know if the pimp did this on purpose, he hates me ever since I kicked that one customer’s butt when I was a newbie. I don’t really care about it anymore, but me, you, Marko, everyone in this place are under his mercy. He knows the people that we don’t. I’ve been thinking about it thoroughly.” He removed the mirror and his kit from the bed and turned to Kaka, “I don’t like what I get here, and I most definitely don’t like…the treatment I got from that crazy fuck. I hate it, but if I couldn’t get away from it, I must get used to it. Are you still with me?”

 

The older man was already on the verge of tears and he would not blame him. It must be annoying for Kaka to listen to the same thing over and over again from a sinner—his altruistic tendency must’ve been all beaten and bloody by Mesut alone. “Go on.” The Brazilian took a deep breath.

 

“I don’t have to like it to be able to get used to it, right? So I think my body can handle it. _I_ should be able to handle it, because…” he trailed off. He didn’t know what he was about to say, but he could feel it even to the tips of his fingers. Something that he secretly treasured. He didn’t even realize it before, he still wasn’t even sure, but the words were already sliding to the tip of his tongue.

 

“Because…?” Kaka tilted his head a little.

 

“…memories…?” Mesut chewed on his lip. He couldn’t cry now. He couldn’t break down in front of Kaka while whatever the night has to offer him was waiting for him behind his door, but he poured it out. “I hate it. I hate it when that…that freak hurt me. I hate that he made me feel vulnerable to be able to—to rule my body…to do as his twisted little head pleased. I want to fucking kill him and I wouldn’t even bother to make it look like an accident. I…” the older man looked startled when a drop of tear made its way out of Mesut’s left eye, “I don’t want…the only happiness that I got to be tainted. It was wonderful. It makes me forget about what I’ve been through, where I’m living in…that’s the only thing I got that makes me _me_.” He felt a growing numbness in his heart as he spoke, but he knew he was halfway there. “I still have it in me. I still do. No matter how deep I bury it, it’d always come to the surface if I let my mind wander. I _need_ to get it off me. I don’t want to taint it. It’s a pure thing and now I know what I’m becoming, so do understand that no fairytale would happen to me and I can live with that.”

 

Kaka didn’t seem to be able to say anything at this point and reached out to touch his hand, “But it makes you empty…”

 

“It’s better.” Mesut squeezed his friend’s hand; a small smile was on his face, “It’s much better. Trust me.”

 

*

 

A few days later, Inzaghi called Mesut to his office to tell him that the price of his patronage had been announced. The expense was incredulously high; he could not even afford it himself with his two years of savings. It gave him a shiver when the owner told him the first bidder was Francesco Totti—he must had seen the discoloring of the boy’s face that he smirked so wickedly like that. The mock-auction was due a week from today and the brunette knew straight away that it was one of Inzaghi’s games. As he was dismissed, he made a quick run to the nearest toilet and threw up in one of the stalls. His eyes and throat had been burning ever since the owner mentioned the twisted billionaire’s name; even his name already made him feel insecure and frightened beyond belief.

 

He hit the wall with his fist that the sound echoed throughout the toilet and winced—not because of the pain, more because of his own negligence. If only he had not brought those memories back, maybe his heart would not have swelled with a tinge of _hoperegretlovelostcravepain_. He shouldn’t have remembered. _They_ should not have called him.

 

It took him half an hour to get on his feet and steady again. He checked himself in the mirror before he went out and decided to get some cherry brandy to remove the bad taste from his mouth, so he strode down the stair coolly. The bar was full and loud, just as usual. He could see a small commotion Mario made in the middle of it as he brought other girls to pose with him as his patron took their pictures. He smiled as he remembered what Marko told him about Mario and his patron, and because of that he didn’t watch where he was going and ran into someone.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He looked up at the man—oh, he smelt kind of nice and looked kind of good too. He was tall, dark of hair, but chocolate in the eyes. He was holding Mesut’s arms gently and Mesut couldn’t help but to stare at him for a second as a wave of familiarity hit him. However he had never seen this man before; so sleek and handsome, he even looked graceful. Even if he was a regular, he should have always wanted to be in the privacy of the VIP rooms. “I…I’m sorry I didn’t…”

 

The taller man stared back and his lips parted as if he was about to say something, but Mesut felt him retreating as he released his arm. He smiled warmly at him, “It’s alright. Watch where you’re going next time, won’t you?” he nodded before he continued climbing the stair.

 

The boy whipped his head back to look at him, mesmerized. He had never had any customer treating him like that before; whoever would deal with him would the luckiest bitch of the night. He walked down the steps reluctantly towards the bar while throwing glances at the direction where the man was going to and avoided Mario in one of his festive dresses and his ecstatic patron on his way to Marko’s table. The boy was sitting alone while laughing at the show their friend was putting up. He joined him.

 

“So that’s Mario’s patron?” he asked as he eyed the thin and actually good-looking Asian man behind his camera.

 

“Yeah. It’s his first time in the bar, he’s quite shy when Mario introduced him to everyone, but a few bottles of beer later, and he’s getting comfortable.” Marko shrugged.

 

Mesut nodded and snorted as Mario practically threw himself all over his patron. There was no intensity like it was between Kaka and Ronaldo, or other girls with their patrons; they just laughed and Mario claimed that he was tired loudly. The taller man did not take any second to excuse himself from the crowd and carried the boy on his back upstairs.

 

“So,” Marko caught his attention, “How’s the talk with Inzaghi?”

 

“Patronage.” He shrugged as he once again had to remind himself that he was about to be sold to a demon in human form. He waved his hand to catch the attention of the bartender, mouthed off his order, and turned to Marko, “In a week, I’m sold.”

 

“ _A week_?” the blonde boy’s eyes turned as wide as saucers, “What got his panties on fire?”

 

“Money perhaps.” Mesut smiled at the waiter as he delivered a bottle of brandy and two glasses with rocks. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, I bumped into a real looker.” He grinned at his roommate as he poured them both some brandy.

 

“Now this sounds good.” Marko chuckled as he took his glass and downed it in one go, “How does he look like?”

 

“Tall,” Mesut sipped on his drink with a silly smile, “dark, big...he looks like he could take down Inzaghi’s bodyguards all by himself.” He downed the rest of his drink, “He’s quite young, black hair, kinda’ long, full lips…dark eyes…he touched my arm, his hand is quite big.” He poured Marko and himself some more and they downed their drinks down. “I hope he’s here to make a bid for me.”

 

“Whatever works for you, Mes.” Marko clinked his glass with Mesut’s and downed it again, “I was actually wondering…where the hell is Kaka?”

 

“Isn’t he somewhere up there with his loverboy?” the dark haired boy mumbled against the edge of his glass, licking the cool sweetness he could reach. “Where’s yours?”

 

“Late night shift.” Marko replied with a long face, “Someone made a pass at me but I screwed up, so here I am.”

 

“Aw, poor you.” Mesut patted his cheek gently and glanced at the men sitting on the barstools before he turned back to his companion, “Why don’t we find a guy to chat for more free drinks?”

 

*


End file.
